


You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round

by old_chatterhand



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Kiss, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Pole-Dance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_chatterhand/pseuds/old_chatterhand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha doesn't know how to pole dance.  This poses a problem - for her, and for Phil, when they both find out that Clint?  Can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round

**Author's Note:**

> I was stuck on my proper feelstide fic and just back from the open house presentation at the pole-dance studio. This happened. In my defence, it was also two in the morning.
> 
> Anyway: the Frogg saved you all from my horrible grammar and spelling, came up with a summary and gave me an impromptu lesson on language differences, particularly in regard to tenses. For I am using the gerundium way-ing too-ing often-ing (this amuses no one but myself. oh well).  
> You have my eternal gratitude.
> 
> Now, without further ado: story!

Natasha doesn't knock. Coulson is working on the end-of-the-year budget review and Clint is slaving away at the overdue practice session evaluations. It was this or helping Sitwell bake cupcakes for the Christmas party. All of SHIELD's Christmas party. That went straight past 'oh, fun with messing around in the kitchen' and straight into 'help, get me out of here, I'm suddenly deathly allergic to fondant'.

Anyway.

Natasha doesn't knock. The office door bangs open and she strides in, hair in disarray and scowling like a harpy. She drags a fingerless glove off her right hand and throws it at Coulson's head (he ducks it easily, but still, what the hell) and drops down heavily on the couch next to Clint. Who manages to get his knees out of the way just in time and only barely avoids being elbowed in the neck.

"Fuck all of this."

Natasha pulls off the second glove with her teeth and pulls her legs up on the sofa, wraps her arms around them and lays her head on her knees. Clint shoots Coulson a worried look. The latter seems confused but less shocked in general. Then again, Clint has suspected for years that his middle name is something like "Rock" or "Eternal Patience".

"Everything alright?" Clint asks carefully, reaching out to touch Natasha's shoulder. He keeps his hand hovering, though, because she has this thing about direct contact. Considering that she is currently only wearing very short hotpants and a racertop, there is a lot of skin and very little safe touching territory.

Coulson comes around his desk to stand in front of them.

"Talk to me, Natasha."

She shakes her head.

"Come on."

He comes closer, crouches down on her other side.

"Talk to us."

There is a moment of stillness, then Natasha explodes, her body uncurling like an over-wound spring, limbs flailing.

"I can't do it, okay?! I just can't! I can't and it sucks and--and--and I suck."

She deflates and now just lies there, sprawled like a rag doll that has been tossed away. Natasha sighs – a breath that seems to come from very deep down and had been bottled up a long time. She looks at Coulson.

"You know that undercover mission I have coming up? In Las Vegas? Operations found a placement for me – as a showgirl."

Coulson nods like this is nothing new to him, which it probably isn't. Clint knows about a mission in general, but no details. He won’t draw attention to that now though.

"I'm supposed to dance on stage. Pole dance." Natasha continues and then stops abruptly. Clint can see the muscles in her jaw working as she grinds her teeth.

"It's...I have no problem with the costumes and being half naked, whatever. My body is my weapon, it is a...skill." Natasha's voice is flat and expressionless.

"I can do the dancing and the movements and the acrobatics and everything. I was taught ballet as a child and I have mastered various martial arts. I can do this." She scrubs her hands over her face and stares at Coulson.

"But...?" He prompts gently.

"It doesn't look right."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's...there is nothing to keep anyone watching. What I do is perfect technique and form, but...Sammy says there is no 'fire' to it." She makes air quotes around the word and scowls again.

Clint starts to understand the problem. Natasha was trained as a spy, was trained in stealth and blending in, trained to fly under the radar. What this needs, is showmanship.

Coulson has gotten up by now and is standing there, hands on his hips.

"We’ll work this out. Come on. We should talk to Operations about alternative placements. But first, you need to show me exactly what does and what doesn't work, so I have more to go on than word of mouth."

He offers Natasha a hand and pulls her back up on her feet. Clint gets up to.

"Where do you think you are going?" Coulson looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I thought I could help, sir." Clint is all innocence. "Being an ex-carnie and all that. Maybe I can offer some advice."

Behind Coulson's shoulder, Natasha shoots him a calculating look.

"He could be right. Maybe I should just impersonate him and monkey around on stage."

Coulson rolls his eyes but doesn't stop Clint anymore from trailing after them.

**

Phil doesn't really mind the interruption of his paperwork, and Natasha's upcoming mission will lay the base for a larger operation against organized a crime syndicate working in money laundry and drug trafficking. So it's important enough to excuse this effort. Even if Phil himself has no idea about pole dancing (which is why he didn't really protest Barton coming along. He's right, he has worked in a circus, maybe he can offer useful input.).

They reach the small training room in which Natasha has been set up: there's two poles installed in front of a gigantic mirror and in one corner is a heap of pillows and mats, probably for warm-up.

Barton hangs back and settles one the cushions to watch. Phil himself goes to stand at the side, arms crossed, ready to watch and analyse every little thing.

Natasha has her gloves on again--apparently they are supposed to improve the grip on the pole--and uses a paper towel and some spray to clean the metal again (what for, Phil has not the slightest idea.).

Then she grips the pole, takes a deep breath and starts dancing. Phil can see the problem. The actual moves are fantastic, the choreography is well thought out and Natasha executes everything perfectly. It's still about as interesting as reading an IKEA manual.

She finishes the routine, looks at them and shrugs, a strange contrast after the grace she has just displayed. Before Phil can even say anything, Barton pipes up.

"Yeah no, that's shit." (Phil is completely certain the man has a death wish.)

Barton appears next to him and grabs the table computer Phil habitually carries everywhere out of his hands. While typing, he continues:

"First of all, you need some music. Even if later on stage you use a different song, at least practice with something. Dancing without music is idiotic."

Natasha glares at the man, but Barton is too busy surfing youtube for the right song to pay attention to that.

"Here, let's try again with this song now. On my mark..."

A soft song starts playing and on Barton's signal, Natasha starts her show a second time. Phil recognises the music as something he has heard on the radio a lot recently – summertime sadness seems to be the major point. Even he can see though, that Natasha moves differently with the song: there is more fluidity to it, everything looks more sensual. Not perfect, but better.

The song even has pretty much the right length for the choreography and Barton makes Natasha go through it twice more.

She comes over after and watches the movie Barton took of her dancing the last time (on Phil's phone, mind you. He has pretty much resigned himself to only supply the tech for this meeting).

"See, it looks better already. Now you just need to do this more showy or something. You know, try to impress your audience and all that. You want them to watch."

Natasha chews on her lower lip thoughtfully.

"I know. I mean, theoretically, I know. Just the effect – I can't imagine what it should look like."

Barton and Natasha have one of their quick and silent discussions, where they only stare at each other, then Barton grins.

"I can show you."

"You can show me."

"Sure. Circus, remember? I've done more than just standing around and shooting at shit."

"You are full of shit."

Barton sticks out his tongue at her, and starts to pull off his shirt. Phil quietly starts panicking. Barton sprawled out on his couch, he can manage. Barton stripping down to tight dark blue boxer briefs, he's not so sure about. Barton stretching and bounding around to warm up his muscles – in nothing but aforementioned boxer briefs - is definitely right at his limit. Phil wants to swallow, but his mouth and throat feel very unnaturally dry.

Natasha meanwhile is picking through songs and presents one after the other to Barton, who dismisses them all.

"Ah, I know!" he says suddenly and types something into the search bar. He then presses the tablet back into Natasha's hands and shoos her over to the side of the training room opposite to the mirror.

"For all around viewing pleasure" he jokes. "Come on, Coulson, you too."

Phil goes. What else can he do?

Barton skip-hops over to the left pole and goes to stand on tip-toe next to it, one arm stretched high above and gripping tightly. Phil watches. He can feel Natasha looking at him sideways, but he is going to ignore her. It's not like he has any brain cells to spare at the moment.

A nod, and the music starts. This time, the song is more upbeat and Barton is clearly improvising on the basis of Agent Romanov's choreography. It's an amazing display of body control, strength and grace.

It is also enough to make angels weep and fall.

Every shift of muscles is clearly visible, every stretch and every bend. Barton twists and turns around the gleaming pole, climbs it up and down with complete disregard to any concept like gravity or physics.

There is a moment when he climbs down the pole head first, whole body undulating in graceful waves. When he reaches the ground, he manages to arrange himself on his hands and knees, pole right at his ass and rolls his back for a few beats. Barton then looks up through his lashes, smirking, his eyes right on Phil.

Phil's brain goes completely offline.

He is certain that more amazing feats follow. He just can't remember.

The music ends. Natasha says something along the lines of now I understand and grins far too knowingly. Phil tells her to keep the tablet until the end of her practice, because now that the problem has been solved, he will head back to his office. Probably with a bathroom stop on the way to jerk off. He prays to all existing deities that he did not say that out loud.

**

The next weeks are reasonably quiet. Phil finishes his budget-review. Natasha goes on her mission in Las Vegas - it is an all around success. Barton actually manages to hand in most of his paperwork. All major threats to the world seem to take a break over the holidays, so the Avengers (and Phil) can too. At the SHIELD Christmas party, Sitwell's traditional cupcakes are Avengers themed this year. The man swears on all that is holy that he had not planned to make the Captain America ones Phil's favorite flavor. There is a Secret Santa. Phil presents a leather bound version of Machiavelli's collected works to Fury (Phil always gets Fury at Secret Santa. Most curious.). His own present comes from Stark – a black tie with silver and purple highlights.  
Phil is slightly disappointed, until Stark throws an arm around his shoulders and with a lascivious grin, says:

"You know, Agent, that's not all: it's more to give you a reminder of the color scheme you're supposed to look for, back at the tower."

The man's grin gets even dirtier and he whispers into Phil's ear.

"You are a lucky bastard, man. I had some technical input and was allowed to watch preparations once. You, Coulson, will be a very happy man soon, I promise."

True enough, Phil isn’t allowed to head home at the end of the party, but gets dragged back to the tower. They drive in two cars, and the one with Phil, Cap and Stark has to take a detour to BurgerKing. Supersoldier metabolism, Cap says. Tradition, Stark says. Phil's a bit hungry, so he doesn't actually mind.

Once at the Tower, they take the elevator upstairs to the Avengers quarters. Well, Cap and Stark go up all the way. Phil is pushed out at the level for the gym and shooting range – somewhat worried when Stark pokes his head out of the elevator and says: "JARVIS, code alpha-sixteen – Agent, you can decide if you want video or not, no one else will have access. Have fun."

Stark winks and then vanishes behind the closing elevator doors, leaving Phil alone in the dimmed light. He looks around and after a moment, his eyes get used to the darkness and he can make out the faint trail of silver and purple glitter, leading him further into the room. Around a far corner, there's more light plus a glittery arrow pointing at a bench with pillows and a blanket. The light is actually a spotlight, pointing right at a dance-pole.

Phil swallows and settles on the bench, facing the "stage".

For a few moments, nothing happens, then the music starts and Barton glides down the pole from somewhere very high up. He is wearing nothing but very tight shorts in black, purple and silver. This is Phil’s Christmas present: his very own personal show.

Phil is a graceful loser – apparently he has been made and he won’t try to keep pretending he's not interested. So this time, he lets himself watch openly.

At the end, Barton steps down from the hold he had on the pole and just stands there.  
"I noticed you liked me dancing and I-- I like you, so I thought, maybe, you would enjoy this." he says after a moment, quietly.

Phil sits there, fingers slowly relaxing from clenching in the material of his by now far too tight pants.

"Come here." he says equally quietly. Barton walks over, stands in front of Phil in all his glory. Phil very slowly puts his hands on Barton's knees, slides them up and along muscular thighs and lets them rest on the man's hips. The skin is warm under his fingers. Their eyes lock.  
"I like you, too."

Phil smiles.

"Clint."

He pulls slightly and Clint comes willingly, settling across Phil's lap, smiling as well.

"Phil."

They kiss.

Later, they will do more than kiss.

In the morning, Phil will turn up at breakfast together with Clint, both of them relaxed and happier than in a long time. Natasha will smirk and Stark will pretend to be scandalized.

But for now, they kiss.


End file.
